


The foam like flowers on the shore

by Calima



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, I accidentally fridged Tuor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:38:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calima/pseuds/Calima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have no choice, except to build a life together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The foam like flowers on the shore

The ocean is only a few minutes’ walk from their camp, if the makeshift cluster of tents can be called such. She takes Eärendil to play along a strip of beach just past the dense reeds as often as she can – which is much more often than she likes, and much less than he needs. He splashes in the little waves and clambers over the rocks, and when she calls, returns, hands brimming with abalone shells or feathers of red kelp. Often, he finds the carapaces of sea-stars.

Tuor, she thinks, would have loved this sea. But the sun seems harsher here, and the sand is as pale and as bright as stone.

***

The Forest-Elves – the _Iathrim_ , remember, not to be confused with their cousins in the east – sometimes appear, to tell them in soft, musical accents where to hunt, which plants are poisonous. She notices that when they speak, their voices are perfectly, unnaturally calm, and their eyes are narrow. Idril ensures that they leave laden with fine cloth and precious jewelry, the arts of Gondolin in its flower. She doesn’t think it’s helping. You can’t eat gold.

***

She speaks to one of Penlod’s architects, and is not surprised to see that he has already drawn up the plans for walls.

***

“You understand that I cannot allow you to build here.”

Nimloth’s eyes are bright green, unusually large and deep-set in her dark, sharp-featured face. She wears her hair in soft, silver coils above her neck. The little queen sits solemnly on her lap. From time to time she looks up at her mother, and Nimloth runs her fingers absently through her cloudy curls.

Idril inclines her head just as deeply as she must, for propriety’s sake, and smiles. “Of course. I have no intention of contesting your claims to this territory, or indeed your mistrust of the Ñoldor. But I am afraid that circumstances do not permit me to honor your request.”

“What request?” Nimloth leans forward, curling her hands around her daughter’s shoulders. “I have allowed the Golodhrim to settle here, in Elwing’s name. My people are not so cruel as to refuse refugees” - Idril bites her tongue and tastes blood – “but we will not allow this land to be taken from us. Not again.”

“If you don’t build walls, you won’t have much of a choice.”

Nimloth waves a hand. “Then we’ll fall back to Balar. Or the go further south. What does it matter? We have already fled our homes.”

These talks require the utmost cultural sensitivity. Idril has practiced for weeks, schooled her naturally expressive features into obedience, worked the Northern accent out of her speech. She considers it a significant accomplishment when she does not scream.

“I – _we_ have children _,_ who will live out their childhoods here. Even if we only have fifty years of safety, or twenty, or ten – what’s it worth, to them, if we don’t build something?”

Elwing shakes off her mothers grip. Nimloth nods to a nursemaid, waiting by the door, who takes her hand and leads her from the room. When they have gone, she looks up, meeting Idril’s eyes.

“I grew up in the forests of Ossiriand, and made my bed by the shores of the Duilwen and the Adurant. Was that nothing?”

“I did not mean – “

“You meant it. Don’t think I haven’t heard the things they say about us, the lords and ladies in their halls.” Her nails dig into the fabric of her dress. “I heard it all in Menegroth.”

Idril swallows. She _had_ meant it. “I am – unfamiliar – with your way of life, but I beg you to believe me when I say that I intended no insult. I’m not asking you to change. Just the walls.”

Nimloth laughs, harshly. “We have the light of the sun on the water, where the river meets the sea. We have the wind in the reeds, and the birches of Arvernien. We will not have these things forever – why labor uselessly? What hope can there be in walls, when Doriath fell?”

***

The birch-leaves have all turned to gold. Eärendil tells her, earnestly, that they remind him of little coins. The water is too cold for swimming, but they go down to the shore as often, to watch the patterns the wind makes on the slate-grey sea.

***

She meets with Nimloth every month, now, to discuss the increasingly frequent communications between their people. They have extracted permission to build a town near the delta, and high, airy dwellings, designed for use in trees, are becoming almost as common as houses of solid Ñoldorin stone. In autumn, one of her ladies asked permission to marry Iathrim singer. At their wedding, Elwing asked Eärendil to dance, quite seriously, “as a gesture of the continued accord between our respective subjects.” The two children commenced stumbling over each other’s feet in over-large formal robes, to the general delight of the assembled guests.

“Do you still miss him?”

Idril turns away from the window onto the courtyard, where their children are playing. “Miss who?”

“Your mortal.” Nimloth takes a delicate sip of tea.

“Why, do you miss yours?”

She’s harsher than she could have been. Nimloth drops her cup. “Dior wasn’t – “

“Why not? His parents were.” It’s so rare to see Nimloth on the defensive. If the topic were anything else, Idril would almost have enjoyed it.

“We would have – “

“What makes you think?”

“ _We would have found a way.”_

She’s shaking. Idril reaches forward, tentatively, and takes her hands. “Shhhh, shhhhh.” She remembers, for the first time, how young Nimloth is. “I know. Oh, I know. Do you think that I had - that I have given up hope?”

***

The woods are carpeted with crocuses and anemones and, perhaps more appropriately, ghostflower, when they begin construction on the walls. As soon as Nimloth agreed on the viability of the project, she took it up wholeheartedly, seeing to supplies and urging the laborers to increase their speed, demanding to see every detail of the ever-changing blueprints.

Idril has taken to bringing her baskets of food, just to make sure she eats.

“The workers will think you’re a tyrant, you know.”

Nimloth smiles as she licks the dark red currant juice from her teeth. “Good. It’ll keep them busy.” She leans back against a half-built battlement, barely warm from the pale spring sun. “Busy isn’t hopeless. Busy isn’t afraid. I’d almost forgotten what it was like, not to be afraid.” She reaches out, tentatively, to brush a lock of golden hair away from Idril’s face.

It’s the easiest thing in the world for Idril to lean over and touch her lips to hers. She can still taste the last bitter-sweetness of the berries.

 


End file.
